I don’t hate many people. But I hate Mr. Elawady. He’s old-school, big-time. I hate how he pushes into the house stomach first, and suddenly everyone’s shouting. I hate how he brushes aside anything Fatima says and he has to sit at the head of the table lecturing and never listening. He makes my head ache. But most of all I hate how he makes me feel: ashamed. A few years ago Ammi wanted to take us on a day trip in her new car to Asbury Park on the Jersey Shore. But Fatima’s father put his foot down. Her mom doesn’t even drive. If she needs to run an errand, either her brother or one of the drivers from Mr. Elawady’s limousine business takes her. “If Rania’s mother had a husband, he would not allow such a thing,” he told Fatima.

Not my abu, I thought. My father was a free spirit.

We reached a corner and I pressed the button at the crosswalk. “I think he’s just messing around,” I told her “Just so you won’t mess around.”

“It’s so unfair.” Fatima punched angrily at the button too. “He lets Abdul do anything. Date anyone! He gets a speeding ticket, my dad slaps him on the back and laughs, says, I was a terror like you too!”

“Just don’t do anything stupid, Fa-Fa.”

The light switched; we walked in grumpy silence toward the subway. These were our favorite kinds of afternoons, so rare, when we tried to squeeze in every drop of time. Usually I was on Kamal duty, or doing the grocery shopping, dragging Ammi’s cart, and Fatima had to help her mother or her father’s business, where he yelled at the half cousins who sauntered in and wanted Fatima to put in a good word for them. Our lives: a bunch of negotiations for freedom. “There’s no such thing as freedom,” her mother once said to us. “You girls need to get that out of your heads right now. Then you will be much happier.”

I like Mrs. Elawady. She has this rough rasp in her voice, like a cold engine turning over, since she secretly smokes. Her hair is always frizzed, and she’s usually smacking a big hand in the air toward one of Fatima’s little brothers. But she’s relaxed, comfortable with herself. Behind the scenes she’s always working on her husband, trying to make him go easier on Fatima. Maybe with this marriage thing, she’s just indulging him so Fatima can get what she wants.

After a few stops we emerged into downtown Brooklyn, where we wandered along Fulton Street Mall, checking out tops. Later we crossed into Fort Greene, which was lined with fancy brownstones and expensive little restaurants.